In the ancient city of Seraphae, where the Nile kissed the golden sand and palaces rose like mountains from the earth, destiny moved quietly beneath silk and shadow.
Seraphae was a city of kings of stone gods and whispered prophecies. A place where bloodlines meant more than hearts, and the stars above were read before choices were made. In the east stood the House of Lareth, proud and untouched, where royalty stretched back over two hundred seasons. And from that bloodline came Aria, daughter of the High Lord Maeron.
She was raised behind sandstone walls polished with gold, in rooms that smelled of rare incense and jasmine. Her gowns shimmered like starlight, her words carried weight. She was the girl born to lead — to be crowned, admired, feared. But behind her emerald eyes, there lived a fire of unrest. Aria was not content. Not with her fate, not with her prince, not with the future her father sculpted for her like a statue.
Across the western sands, within the towering House of Elandor, there lived Damien, son of Lord Kael. His name was carved in the same ancient pact that tied his life to Aria's. The two were betrothed from birth a union of politics disguised as love. He was graceful, trained in diplomacy, carved from stone like his father. A prince in every way.
But even marble can crack.
And beneath the noble arches of Seraphae's greatest school the Temple Academy of Nahris something unexpected was about to unfold.
On the first day of the learning season, a third name entered the sacred halls. Not of noble blood, nor of wealth, but through merit alone.
Elijah.
He arrived with a scroll of scholarship clutched to his chest, his sandals dusty from travel, his tunic plain and unadorned. His mother, a widow from the southern quarter, had sold bowls of hot pap at dawn just to keep food in his belly. But Elijah's mind was a sharp blade, and the gods seemed to smile on him.
No one noticed him at first. Not among the shimmering robes and polished voices of noble sons and daughters.
Until she did.
It wasn't love. Not then.
It was a collision — sudden, accidental, unforgettable.
In a corridor lined with blue and gold, where the torches lit the walls like firelight, Aria turned a corner too fast. Elijah was there, balancing scrolls. They crashed, hard.
Parchments flew. Silence fell.
"You dare?" Aria's voice cut the air.
He looked up, confused. "It was an accident
Her palm met his cheek with the sting of pride.
In Seraphae, things like this were not unusual. But the boy didn't cower. He didn't kneel. He only blinked once, clenched his jaw, and walked away.
That was the first time Aria noticed someone who didn't bow.
And that made all the difference.